


when flowers ceased to bloom

by DKTakes12



Category: Final Fantasy, Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Blood and Violence, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, F/F, Grief/Mourning, Major Character Injury, Mental Health Issues, Reckless Endangerment, Self-Hatred, Sucidial Tendancies, Suicidual Ideation, Suicidual Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-14 09:53:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29416683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DKTakes12/pseuds/DKTakes12
Summary: Aranea Highwind cannot let go of the past. Three years after Luna's death and she still mourns as if it was yesterday. She is stuck in a haze of indifference, hoping that something 'out of her control' will take her too. Nea is stuck between hating the fact that she's alive, mourning Luna's death, and training Iris without Gladio's knowledge in the vain hope that it will make up for all the wrong she's done and the woman she couldn't save.
Relationships: Lunafreya Nox Fleuret/Aranea Highwind
Comments: 8
Kudos: 8
Collections: World of Ruin Big Bang





	when flowers ceased to bloom

**Author's Note:**

> The absolutely amazing art work in this story is done by Happy-Orc on Tumblr (https://happy-orc.tumblr.com/) who is not only an AMAZINGLY DELIGHTFUL HUMAN BEING but also a wonderful artist <3 I'm so glad I was paired up with her to work on the World of Ruin BB together! Absolutely a joy and delight.  
> Art Can be Found here: https://happy-orc.tumblr.com/post/643036055462969344/aranea-comforting-iris-in-the-word-of-ruin-the
> 
> I wrote this while high on an experimentation with breaking the traditional A-B-C-D narrative structure. I wanted to try and bring about this half-haze feel, like nothing slotted together quite right and time was meaningless, feel to the story. Kind of a mirror in how depression swallows a little bit of everything. So the structure is rather unconventional. Hopefully, it works :')

fear of infection 

Nightmares had gathered like familiar friends in Aranea Highwind’s life since the fall of Altissia. The rumble of an airship is where they always began: the slickness of lashing rain against her cheeks and the howl of a goddess rattling through her ears paint the scene. The stickiness of drying blood under her heels is where they often end, stoking a pain in her chest so solid it turned her muscles to stone and caused her lungs throb as if filled with ash.

But it’s the middle of the dream that always caused her heart to stutter and ache. 

Lady Lunafreya’s hand reached out towards the storm-riddled sky. The hollow scream of a goddess drummed through Aranea’s ears until blood trickled down the side of her face, curled around her chin, and demanded to be felt. Aranea will never know what the Leviathan said on the eve of Luna’s death. But she knows it has the same tone, the same pain, as the scream leaving her lungs when she finds Luna crumpled on damp cobblestones in a puddle of her own blood. Both her scream and the Astral’s have the same pitch and curve.

She closed her eyes, pressed herself back into the covers as if she could fade away along with the lingering panic of her nightmare. Nea would never know the true meaning behind her lover’s death; she would never be a goddess even though she had certainly fallen in love with one. The only answer she would ever have rested on the shoulders of the True King and his ‘divine right’ to live. Like most things involving the fucking Astrals, a divine right because of a damn ring meant jack shit to her. Her life had crumbled to pieces around her, faded into misery and russet stains on a pristine white dress all for a King who disappeared months later.

Luna’s outstretched hand had been for her and no one else; Aranea was sure of it. Astrals be damned, fate be cursed, she wished over and over again that she could have been there to take it. Even if it ended the same…It would have been easier if the blood had still been warm, if Luna’s lungs had still heaved for breath. If Luna had simply been able to _see_ her before death - at least Aranea would have been able to give Luna a proper goodbye. At least she would have been able to bundle softness instead of stiffness into her arms and say _something_ worthwhile. Perhaps, if Luna had still been breathing when Aranea arrived, she would have been able to understand why her owm screams matched the scream of the Leviathan. 

But she pushed the nightmare out of her head and breathed in the scent of dirty sheets, unwashed skin, and the general lack of care she had for herself. There was a distinct smell to the depression and grief that settled on her shoulders more heavily then her armour ever did. Sometimes, when she was able to muster a sense of care, Nea wondered if other people could smell it too. Perhaps that was why people avoided her. The scent of her sorrow rotted something deep in her bones and forced others to run to avoid her for fear of infection.

Not that it mattered. It was better that she was left alone. After Luna...She wasn’t too sure if she was worth getting close to.

***

static 

It’s mornings like this that she would rather forget. Maybe, if she curled onto her side and pressed her face deep into a stained pillow, she could pretend she didn’t exist. How was she supposed to stop herself from analyzing the fact that she was alive while Lunafreya wasn’t? She wasn’t able to to explain the exact feeling of her heart spattering across the shattered bones of her ribs. She had tried once, while mostly drunk, and only ended up with a broken nose and fragmented memories of a fist fight and a roar in her ears that could have been from swearing or a well-aimed fist to her temple.

She still didn’t know how she was supposed to live with the damage every burning breath, speckled with bone fragments from her lungs, tormented her with life. ‘Loss’ didn’t begin to cover it. ‘Grief’ even less so. She was missing an entire piece of herself, broken while physically whole. 

The only person who _might_ understand her was Gladio. And, even then, the man was indebted to the True King. Noctis. The bastard was the reason Luna’s blood was a stronger memory than her laugh. No. It was better if Aranea simply piled the day in a drawer, locked it away, and let pain devour the details until it was a static of maybe yesterday, perhaps last week, might have been last month. 

It’s always easier to feed the pain then it was to try and compartmentalize every inch of her that wanted to join Luna, somehow, and tell it no. So she pulled the covers back over her head. The watery sunlight couldn’t make it through the worn sheet. Nea could pretend that she would wake up again with Luna’s warm breath on her cheek. She let herself slip back into a static sleep and quietly prayed to the cursed Astrals that she wouldn’t wake.

Unfortunately, she always did wake. Sometimes of her own accord, other times because Biggs and Wedge were ‘invested’ in her health. They seemed to be the only two who cared. She was far past that point.

***

moss on a crumbling roof

Aranea pulled herself up from her bed after her fourth waking. A nightmare clung to her throat like a noose. The thin sheet fell to her waist. Lestallum. She barely remembered coming here, lured by some Glaive or maybe one of the King’s men to ‘help’. Mm, as if she was any help at all. Nea could barely keep her head on straight. She rocked through the motions of the day, of training, of meetings for energy and rescues and escorts. Nine times out of ten, she was unable to tell you what she did or didn’t do in a day. 

She shivered as her hands automatically buried into the knotted tresses of her hair. The urge to yank and tear was strong but she pushed it down, deep into her chest where the rest of her thoughts and feelings sat like daemons waiting for the watery sunlight to fade. _Just let the day fade into a static mess, please. Give me that peace._

Easier, it was always easier, to bury what she felt then try to process the shattered pieces of her heart. This wasn’t something she could patch herself together from. Or maybe Luna’s death was something she _didn’t_ want to piece herself together from. Did it matter? Being broken could have been a sign of faith; Luna would haunt her till the end of her days and she would always have one foot in the grave beside her lover’s corpse. 

Aranea planned to die with this ache in her soul and this pain in her chest much like Luna died alone, abandoned by the True King and his men like she was worth less then the mud on the bottom of their stupid red soles. 

_They left her._ The thought threatened to tear her skull apart. Her hands shook. _They left her because they deemed Noctis more important. Because they chose a King over a Princess, an Oracle._ She tried to force the familiar anger down into the pits of her stomach and tasted acid in her throat from the effort. If only she could bury the anger alongside the numbing sadness. If only it could slide away like her days did so effortlessly. 

It’s night outside the faded and torn curtain covering the window of a shabby, half borrowed apartment in Lestallum. It didn’t fully block the hazy construction lamp light from leaking into the room. A spear of pain strikes Nea’s skull - dehydration headache. She can’t remember the last time she ate or drank truly. 

The room is in semi-shambles, scattered with unwashed clothing in glorified piles on the floor. Take out boxes, some not as empty as they should be, clutter any available surface - including the torn couch in the corner of the room. The smell of ichor, a familiar mix of bile and rotten blood, stained her throat. Probably stuck to a pair of jeans or a t-shirt or something somewhere. The only thing Nea religiously cleaned was her armour. It was also the only thing she religiously ‘forgot’ to wear. It wasn’t suicide if it wasn’t planned.

Not that it mattered much at the end of it. If something was meant to kill her, it would. She put faith in that at least. 

Her breath bubbled with fog from her lungs as she sat there, shivering in the soft-near winter chill. There was no point in wallowing in bed even though that’s all she wanted to do. Another slide into depression sleep would only worsen the ache in her skull. 

Aranea ripped the sheet off her legs and tossed it on the dirt dusted ground with more force than necessary. A shower, bitterly cold as power was better put to use keeping daemons at bay, would do her some amount of good. She’d scrounge up some breakfast, do a round or two around the gates. Maybe killing something would make her feel better. Maybe ichor on her hands would make the jelly feeling of hours old blood fade away and take Luna’s dull, glassy eyes from her vision. 

Maybe she’d die an honourable death if she stalked out into the Ruins on her own.

 _It would be better,_ she thought as she grabbed a moth eaten towel and scratched idly at a scab that covered her entire forearm - daemons, always fought tougher then she gave them credit for - _if I just mindlessly droned through the Ruins._ _Maybe I will remember the good times instead of her death if I die. Perhaps the Astrals will grant me the luxury of darkness._ But it was hard to banish the sight of Luna crumpled like a porcelain doll amid rubble and replace it with a warm smile and a soft hand on her cheek. It was so hard to remember the warmth when the last thing Aranea got was the cold stiffness of a corpse soaked in rain. How was she supposed to remember a laugh when the Leviathan’s scream had been seared into her ears?

She peeled off her bottoms and threw them idly into the corner of the bathroom, among another pile of mildew stained clothing, as she stepped into the shower. Ice water hit her spine and she hissed at it. There was never much hot water and she was certainly the least deserving of it regardless of quantity. But the hissing didn’t make it warmer either. She reached for the soap, felt the shift of soaked fabric on her side. 

Nea was still wearing the t-shirt she slept in.

It was a little thing, to peel it off and throw it in the bottom of the shower but it seemed like a momentous amount of effort. It was an effort she couldn’t describe clearly, one that clawed her throat to near choking. She nearly left it on and soaped it up to make it ‘clean’ instead of slipping it off her shoulders and over her head. It was the thought of catching a cold and wasting hard to come by medical supplies that made her peel the soaked fabric off her chest and wiggle it over her hair.

The water was still bitterly cold. It was enough to drive the memories away for a moment. But the sting of it working into her bones eventually reminded her of how the rains swirled, inhuman and unnatural, around Luna. How she tried to convince Biggs and Wedge to land, somewhere close, so she could try to save her lover. They refused, claiming her safety as if it was a prize to be had.

 _“It doesn’t matter if I’m dead if I don’t have her!”_ Aranea remembered yelling as Biggs gripped her forearm and Wedge steered her ship away from a twisting storm, a vortex that would destroy her tenfold. Sometimes, even though she knew her memory wasn’t true, Nea could picture Luna standing in the centre of that vortex and she could hear her lover calling for her.

Yet here she was, clinging to a life she wasn’t truly inclined to continue living.

Maybe training Iris would make her feel better…as long as she didn’t get caught by Gladio. She liked to think she could take him in a fight but beating up Iris’ big brother didn’t seem like a good way to earn the girl’s trust and respect. It didn’t seem like a good way to fit in with the new Glaives either. Sure, it would make her feel better for a few minutes and the bruises and the aches would be wonderful distraction, but afterwards...she’d wonder why the man saved the fucking True King and left the Oracle to rot.

Her hands raked through her hair until the tangles ran free. If it had been Luna’s hair, she would have curled the locks around the edges of her fingers and laughed as Luna’s cheeks turned bright red. Aranea would have traced Luna’s jaw with her fingers, mumbled sweet nothings against her neck, and thanked the Astrals for the gift Luna was. Now, Aranea cursed the Astrals with every spare breath she had instead. 

Aranea should have been over it by now, three years after. But pain, it seemed, had a funny way of embedding itself into the bones and demanding to be felt. It wasn’t like she hadn’t had warning either. The Oracle had seen her fate a dozen times over; Luna had warned her while they laid next to each other, twisted together like vines on a crumbling church, in a bed large enough to drown in.

 _"The_ _Astrals have given me limited time.”_ Fuck the Astrals. _“I will walk the path to Noctis’ throne first, so the way is cleared for him.”_ Fuck Noctis too. _“Anger doesn’t suit you, Nea.”_ But it did. It suited her so fucking well. Because -she slammed the knob off as the last of the soap twisted down the drain- it was easier to wallow in anger and blame a man with a horrible fate. 

They really were like a church, her and Luna. Worshiped when someone felt like they had the time and abandoned as soon as the magic was gone. Aranea was the last bits of moss on a crumbling roof; Luna the rotting supports holding the roof up as if in memory of a duty now pointless. 

Aranea should have been there. She should have protected Luna. But she wasn’t there, until hours after, when the boys had gathered their precious Noctis and left Luna there like an empty husk. Left the _goddamn Oracle_ as if she was some broken child’s toy.

She couldn’t forgive that. She’d never forgive it. Damn the True King and all his men. Damn everyone for never teaching Luna how to defend herself. Damn the Astrals for saying love was expendable. Damn Luna for accepting it. But, most of all, damn herself for being too late.

Tears trickled down her cheeks and she wiped them away with an anger she only half felt. She didn’t have time for this bullshit. Grieving wasn’t something Aranea did. It was a pass time offered to those who had the ability to process loss. Which, Nea knew for a fact, she didn’t.

Determined not to feel sorry for herself, Aranea found a cleanish tank top in a pile from the floor and pulled it on. Training Iris would make her feel somewhat better; it always did. The spunky little kid had more life in her than Aranea ever would, especially now. She pulled on a pair of jeans and laced her boots up to her calves. Maybe Iris would be ready for her first hunt soon enough. 

It was a good distraction. She was almost able to push her pain back into the cage of her ribs. Not completely, but enough to hide. 

The ratted hoodie slid over her wet hair easily and she ignored the bitter chill that hit her face as she stepped outside. 

*** 

rattled through her bones like a bullet

“Get up.” Aranea barked. She was straight backed, barely winded, with her lance balanced across her shoulders and her right hand curled around the shaft. Her left hand hung idly at her side. The night chill froze the sweat on her brow; frost coated her lashes.

Aranea’s green eyes were hard. A bitter twist of her lip and she snapped, one more time: “Get. Up.”

Iris lay in the dirt on her back. Sweatpants drenched in half-frozen mud, shirt torn along her stomach, every inch of her ached and screamed. She was winded, bruised, and had been dragged through this scrap by the collar of her now torn shirt. Iris’ ass had been thoroughly kicked by Aranea and she had no want to get up. Sweat beaded down her forehead and froze in icy trails on her cheeks. She wanted a hot shower, knew there wouldn’t be one for years. _If_ they were that lucky.

“Nea, I really -” 

Aranea cut her off quickly. “Don’t call me that. It’s Aranea or Highwind.” She pressed the tip of her lance directly into Iris’ nose. _Nea._ It was what Luna had called her. It stung, rattled through her bones like a bullet. 

“You fall like that in the field, you’re as good as dead. Won’t be any daemons out there as nice as I am. Now, get up.” Luna would have told her she was being too tough on the kid. And, if Luna was still alive, perhaps she would have listened.

Iris batted Aranea’s lance away with the back of her hand. “Okay, okay.” She pulled herself up with a groan and did her best to ignore the shiver in her spine. Not only did she have to make a plan for hiding the bruises from her brother, now she had to try and figure out how to hide a cold. “Am I getting better?” Iris sneezed and wiped her nose on the back of her hand.

There was a stiffness, a shadow, that crossed Aranea’s face. _If someone had trained Luna._ “...you aren’t bad.” 

It was as close to a compliment as Iris’ had ever received. She cracked a grin and ignored the blood trickling down her chin from a split in her lip. A compliment. From Aranea Highwind. Hell, she doubted her brother had gotten that. 

“I’ll be hunting soon enough, won’t I?” A giddiness surged across her bones. Hunting. Something _useful._ While the world fell apart, she could be helpful. It was a better plan than selling and mending clothing. As much as Iris loved aiding the city, she needed to do something more. And more was incredibly difficult to come by these days.

Nea looked away. “Not without me. Not for a while yet.” She held out her hand with an idle reluctance. “C’mon. Let’s work on your stance, get your balance better so a Giant doesn’t knock you on your ass by looking at you funny.” 

Iris clasped Aranea’s hand in hers and let the older woman drag her back to her feet.

***

fast and hard

Perhaps Aranea should have been paying better attention when she signed on for a mission into the Ruins. 

Practice with Iris had gone well. It silenced the beating thread of a nightmare long enough for her to think straight. Correcting Iris’ stance, shifting the girl’s hands for a better grip, showing her how to brace for a stronger swing with a greatsword half Iris’ size - it all made for a wonderful and vicious distraction. 

But then the next came on her phone, from Cor. The preview a simple flash:

**Mission for you...**

Nea let her auto-response send a ‘yes’ before she actually read it. Now she was stuck with the man who understood her the most and sympathized with her the least. Gladiolus. A mountain of a man, as dangerous in the Ruins as he was scarred. The Shield to a Missing King. 

The man who made her swear she would never train his sister. In fact, he made her swear on Lunafreya’s grave. A grave Nea had dug with bare hands in frozen earth. Her hands wept blood into that earth. 

Did a grave matter when there was no one to tend it properly? Or was it just a place to store grief? 

Aranea didn’t know. She didn’t know if she particularly cared. Right now, she stood side by side with a man built like a brick shit house. He hefted his sword into a two-handed grip, over-locked, and grimaced. “Think if we go in fast and heavy, we’ll have it dealt with before first light?” 

The soft glow of bombs fluttering near the compound made her doubt _fast and heavy_ was a viable option. She could hear the soft chatter of imps as well. Small enemies, sure. But it was only the two of them and, as much as Aranea did indeed have a death wish, she didn’t want her blood on Gladio’s hands. She would rather have it on her own. 

“Don’t be fucking stupid.” Nea grumbled, rolling her shoulder and easing the buckle of her armour. It dug uncomfortably into her armpit. Years ago, she would have been intimately familiar with the bite of leather under her arm and the subtle pinch of skin between metal plates on her stomach. Now? She wished for the comfort of a hoodie and a leather jacket. 

“Don’t be a bitch about it.” He snorted. “You got any better ideas, Highwind?” 

She didn’t. She was too wrapped up in how easy it would be to not pay attention to an imp hoard. The words nearly left her. Instead, she shrugged. “Lure ‘em. Out into the field. I’ll run in, distract a few, drag them to you.” 

“Sounds like suicide.” 

_So easily caught._ It was like Gladio was reinforcing the fragile support beams of the church Nea was determined to watch rot. 

He glanced at her from under hooded lashes. The spark of amber was fierce, hard. The bitter strength of a Shield that had already lost everything once. “...heard you were trainin’ Iris.” 

“Fast and hard then.” Aranea didn’t stop when he shouted wait. She was already halfway down the hill, kicking up dust under her heels and bringing her lance out across her torso for a swift strike.

***

tucked in the corner of a grave

It’s like walking through a fog. Thick, heavy, and unbearable. The night wraps around Aranea, arms lead weights on her shoulders and hands clutching at her throat. But she laughs and slaps Gladio’s back as she stands from a rickety camping chair. “Of course, big guy. You always know what’s best, don’t you?” She downs the rest of her Ebony and wishes it had a causal sting of alcohol behind it. Unfortunately, she needed to stay sharp. She always needed to stay sharp these days. They’d won one battle and that meant nothing, not when there were daemons spawning left, right, and centre.

Her muscles ached. She was already tired of this. It was a tired so deep it wormed into the marrow of her bones and settled in the hollow spaces left behind. 

“I’m serious, Highwind.” Gladio responded with a hard edge to his voice. “Don’t you dare take my little sister outside Lestallum’s walls. It isn’t safe out here.” He barely fit in the chair he’d settled in. Thighs thick as tree limbs, hands clasped over his knees as if in prayer, Gladio had bundled himself into the chair like an adult at a tea party. 

He looks out of place, a brother’s action figure from his latest ‘manly’ doll stolen by a little sister desperate to play house. Which...when Nea considers how he cares for Iris, the analogy isn’t entirely wrong. Where Nea was the crumbling supports for the sunken church roof, Gladio was the solid steel door keeping the daemons out. The Behemoth in a pink collar verses the rabid rat in the streets. 

_Fuck him,_ she decides then and there. He had the drive to protect his sister, shield a fucking King, but he couldn’t carry a dying Oracle off the crumbling cobbles.

She nearly throws the can in her hand. The anger strikes her suddenly, intensely. It’d be so easy to spear a lance through his gut for what he’s done to Luna. No one would bat an eye at another lost man. They would mourn him like they mourned their fucking King and -

_Iris._

The anger leaves her suddenly, gone as quickly as it came. There’s a sharp cut to his amber eyes. The scars across his face glimmers in the camp light as if it was a beacon. He knew, somehow, that Nea hated him. She never tried to hide it, not really but...perhaps she shouldn’t be so damn harsh to him. If she was him, in his shoes, and standing in the ruins...would she have gone for Luna or taken the True King and run?

She shook her head and pretended the comforting feeling of fingers caressing her braids wasn’t a dead memory; she could still have them when the mission was over and she curled in bed with her lover. Aranea’s knuckles did not ache with the urge to tackle Gladio to the ground and make him apologize for what he didn’t prevent and the comfort he couldn’t provide. She buried all of her grief in one corner of her heart and left it to rot. When the infection hit her blood she would think about it, practice dealing with the infection that may kill her in the end.

“You can’t keep her hidden away forever.” The words weren’t meant for Gladio or Iris. She knew that.

Gladio didn’t. “I’m not hiding her.” 

“Iris isn’t a delicate flower. Besides -” she gestured above them towards a shallow gray sky- “she’ll wilt if she is.” _Like Luna, broken under the weight of a burden she never asked for. You cannot keep her safe by hiding her._ Water isn’t enough to save a beautiful blossom when it grows tucked in the corner of a grave.

The chair nearly rose with him as he stood but it clattered quickly to the ground when his feet solidified themselves on the pavement. He took one step forward, hunched his shoulders over his chest as he loomed above her. “Don’t test me.” Yet Gladio’s voice was hollow, soft. Whatever anger he tried to draw from his bones faded the instant he rose with it. He sighed and took half a step back. “She’s all I’ve got let, Aranea. Please.”

 _At least you have someone, big guy._ All she had left were Biggs and Wedge. Which, when she put their emotional intelligence into account, wasn’t much. She shrugged her shoulders and tossed the Ebony can behind her. “If she asks me to train her again, I will Gladiolus.”

“Ara –”

“Don’t. Listen to me.” She pressed her finger into his bare chest. “You’re running around without a fucking shirt, trying to find a dead prince stuck in a crystal. These walls get breached and she’s _fucked._ You won’t be here to protect her.” A flash of golden blonde and a smile darted across Aranea’s vision but she blinked it back along with the sting of tears. “And if you aren’t here for her, how is she going to survive? She won’t, idiot. She’ll be a lamb in a fucking slaughter.”

Iris would end up dying, alone, with her hand reaching outwards for someone to take and blood trickling down her side. Her body would be left in a ruin because someone else, _someone who should have saved her_ , was more important.

And Aranea would be left to pick up the pieces; she couldn't even handle her own.

He grabbed her wrist and yanked her finger off his chest. “You’ve changed.” The hard edge to his voice could have crumbled stone. Sucked that Aranea was already shattered pieces of marble on a mossy floor. “You used to have your shit together.

Of course she had. Before she lost Luna...everything had been easy. And then she lost Luna. In the blink of an eye, everything changed. Her world shattered. Nothing would ever be the same. She gathered the broken pieces in her hand, knew they were supposed to fit together in a different way. But the _effort_. Piecing her life back together without Luna was like stringing hair bubbles along the edge of a knife. It didn’t make sense and the possibility of it did more damage than good. 

She supposed Gladio might understand some of it, maybe the others as well. Gladio lost his father, Noct. Ignis lost his sight; Prompto, his cheer. They’d all changed. Some of them just figured out the best ways of twisting themselves back together. Aranea still sat in the corner of her lover’s grave with a gaping hole in her chest.

Aranea laughed instead of saying anything. Grief had always been easier to hide then share. “Really? I hadn’t noticed. Thought I was the exact same I was before.” She tucked her hurt deep into her chest and pretended her ribs weren’t breaking with every breath she took. 

His brow furrowed and the bold amber of his gaze somehow softened. “We cared, ya’ know? About Lun-” 

“Don’t you fucking dare.” 

Both his hands went up, palms out, and he nodded. 

Grief, Aranea knew, was a beast that wasn’t worth handling. She’d been on her own with it for far too long to let anyone else try to collar and train it. Let it destroy her house and piss on her floors. She’d just get boots with thicker soles.

***

a shattered mosaic 

“This is an easy mission. You take her out, bring her back. Nothing bad needs to happen to her. Can you promise me that?” Gladio’s tone was hard. He was always hard lately. The years wore on him and sometimes she swore she could see grey starting to streak his thick locks. He rubbed his hands together, blew into his cupped palms. As the sun faded, so did the man’s tolerance for the cold. He wore a sweater now, zipped to his chin, and a faded bomber jacket over his broad shoulders.

Made sense, really. A man built like Gladio really didn’t have many clothing options during the quiet death of the world. A college kid’s jacket, football team embossed on the back, made a hell of a lot of sense. He could use a toque though. Nea was eighty percent sure his ears were tipped with frostbite at this point.

“She’ll be fine.” She rubbed her hands together. “I’ve trained her, you’ve trained her. She’s kicked both our asses at least once. This is as good as it gets, Gladio.” They didn’t have the luxury to keep Iris hidden inside Lestallum. If the young woman was capable, able to fight, then she was needed. The city needed energy to keep the lights on, survivors were scattered throughout the Gods damned countryside, and food was too scarce. 

“You still don’t get it, Highwind. She’s the last thing I have.” Gladio said it as if he wasn’t standing on the edge of Lestallum’s gates, between the Wasteland outside and the barely-held haven they both protected. He said it as if Aranea hadn’t already lost everything. 

_He said it like his King isn’t coming back. Like he’s given up._ Maybe he finally found the same grief Nea had been wearing as a second skin for nearly six years.

Aranea shrugged her shoulders and looked away. “And?” One word, easily translated into “fuck you, I have nothing. You have something”. 

“Look at me.” 

She did, kept the careful stone on her face so he only knew her impassive anger instead of her pain. 

“If...if we could have saved Lunafreya, we would have. But...there was nothing we could do, Aranea. We got there and she was…” Gladio trailed off. It was as if he was scared of his own voice, of the pain his words sliced into her skin. 

“No. You wouldn’t have. If it was between her and your fucking King, you would have left her to rot anyways. Don’t think an explanation now will spare you from that guilt.” If Nea had to live with the guilt of her failure for the rest of her life, then she would make sure he did too.

He looked away and his silence only solidified everything she suspected to be true. 

“...I’m sorry.” Gladio’s apology took _years_ to leave him. Frost coated his eyelashes, graced his hair. The two of them stood only a few feet apart, separated by a barrier of duty and guilt, and he couldn’t look at her.

What Gladio didn’t know: Aranea was already a shattered mosaic. Her pieces scattered the floor, twisted and glittered among the filth of her failure. There was no beauty left to be taken; and there wasn’t a polish strong enough to bring a proper shine back to her pieces. Sunstained, molding, and crumbling. Nea was only beautiful when snow covered the floorboards and a winter moon through a holy thatch roof distracted the viewer. 

He could give her a million reasons why he hadn’t been there for Luna and she had a million more as to why he should have been there. Gladio could tell her a hundred thousand times that he tried. Aranea would show him how he didn’t. She would reenact the fall of Altissia, Iris playing the role of Lunafreya and Gladio in the role of Nea, and perhaps then he would understand a sliver of the hurt she had never managed to pull herself out of.

Gladio took half a step forward even as his eyes glanced over his shoulder and he looked behind him. “I mean it. If I could have done something-”

“You could have fucking been there sooner.” And she turned on her heel, walked back into the city to find Iris for their own hunt. She had a hundred different reasons and barbs as to why he should have tried harder, been there faster, saved Luna. 

But she had even more reasons for why _she_ was entirely to blame.

***

the moment when the rotten pillars of their church crumble

“Iris!” An Iron Giant’s fist slammed against her lance. Aranea dug in her heels, grit her teeth against the pain flooding her arms from the pressure and the force. If she had been a second later, something would have popped. Her shoulder ached. That would have been the thing that popped.

Nea tasted copper and salt on her tongue. The lance spun in her hands. She swung hard, pierced the Giant in the side. Ichor burst with a guzzle, a spigot of steam stemming from the wound in the frost coated air.

“I’m alright!” There was a pitch of a scream at the end of Iris’ words. “Still okay!”

She couldn’t turn to check. _Keep her safe. Please._ Nea was trying her fucking best. The heavy fist of the Iron Giant rocked her again. She twisted, a dance on her heels, and tried to dart out of a defensive stance. _Aggression. That’s the only thing that works with these fucking daemons._ Strike fast, dart in and out. 

But the kid wouldn’t know that. Iris was better at defensive tactics. She had range with her great sword - _damn it!_ Aranea barely avoided the fist slamming into the ground. She teetered on her toes, toppled to the side, and struck her shoulder into a rock hard enough to hear it crack. 

_Do not fucking break yourself now, Nea. You’ve got shit to do, a kid to protect._

"Iris, the haven. Now!” Pain and panic laced the edges of her voice. Aranea’s throat tightened. She couldn’t let the kid hear her fear. The lance was back between her frozen fingers, her hands clutching either end. 

Metal rang as she took a blow against the centre of the lance intended for her face. The force rattled her teeth in her jaw and her arms nearly dropped; the lance nearly fell from her grip.

“It’s too far, Nae. I can’t -” A grunt ended Iris’ words. _Something_ hit the dirt. 

Aranea’s lungs seized. How many times was she going to be the reason someone died? She spun her lance and thrusted it forwards. Ichor burst across her arm, steaming in the evening frost. It coated her face and tore the bitter chill from her skin before freezing. Leather crunched as she bent her arms, crackled as she prepped for another swing.

Its fist circled around her lance, clenched, and dragged her forward. Aranea fought it. She dug her heels into the earth, bit the inside of her cheeks until blood layered across her tongue. “Fuck right off!” And, as if it was a magic command from the damn Astrals themselves, she managed to break her weapon free from it’s grip. She gritted her teeth, prepared to strike again and-

Stopped. 

Froze dead in her tracks. 

The idea of oxygen evaporated in the bitterly cold wind. The clash of Iris’ greatsword against armoured flesh rattled through her skull and then faded, a din she could barely recognize. The lance tumbled from her hands and clattered to the hard packed, frozen earth under her boots. The crackle of electricity from a bomb lifted the hair off of her skin. Blue sparks scattered across her leather jacket. She dropped to her knees, barely aware of the pain from the subtle strike. Her breath misted in front of her; frost coated her eyelashes and melted against her cheeks as she blinked. Her vision was a blurred mess but _she_ was clear as bright daylight from before.

It was a horrible false thing that made Aranea doubt her own sense. A beautiful, twisted vision that dragged every suicidal urge she had bitten down over the years back to the surface of her skin and bared it all to the fucking Astrals that took everything from her over and over again. 

_Luna._

At the edge of the field, bathed in a wash of careful silver, stood Luna. Her dress was pristine, her hair clean, and there was no terrible gash of russet red on her side. A smile graced her gentle lips and Nea swore, up and down, that she could smell the sylleblossoms. Her dress shifted, half in a breeze and half underwater. Where Luna stood, the sun shone. 

Luna was whole. One hand rested on the necklace around her throat, the soft gold chain with a delicate moon and star. Her other rested loosely at her side. Luna’s hair was undone, loose around her shoulders. Even sleeveless in the winter chill, not a single goose-bump marred her skin. The air rippled around her and she raised her hand, reaching out as if to grasp for Aranea’s. 

_This is it, isn’t it?_ Aranea couldn’t gather enough breath in her lungs to call out. She could only manage an open mouth stare. Panic, pain, anger. All three battled in her chest, laced her tongue, pinned her arms to her side. She couldn’t think past the fact that this...this had to be it. Why else would Luna come to her, in the middle of a battle? Why else would the woman she loved hold out her hand, reach for her, as the world crashed around her and a Giant bore down on her.

These had to be her last moments. These seconds that stretched on for hours. This visibly invisible thread of time that looped around her waist, yanked her into an abyss she hadn’t prepared for. If it had been three years ago and she was dripping wet in a tank top in the shower, she would have immediately walked to Lunafreya with open arms. Nea would have walked into death as willingly as a lamb content to the slaughter.

But now...now she had Iris, a girl grown into a warrior woman. There was a purpose, even in the grief so thickly scattered at her feet. Aranea had made the mistake of starting to piece herself together and sodder the weak panes of stained glass into something malformed, dingy, but perhaps colourful in a few more years.

Aranea dropped to her knees and raised her chin to bare her throat. Perhaps she would have fought harder if Iris had been closer, if she could hear what the young woman was screaming. Yet death and Luna still held a comfort despite the tiny voice in her skull asking her to stay, begging her to train. It should have been a harder decision or a bigger fight. Half of her had expected she would fight death simply because it was all she knew how to do anymore, fight and allow the anger to fill her bones. 

But now, looking at Luna...fighting seemed rather pointless; grief was a blanket that fell into a familiar shape over her shoulders. Especially when the woman she loved, missed with her entire being in a way nothing else could replace or replicate, was standing there. Waiting. It was easy to imagine being curled next to Luna, two perfect puzzle pieces slotted together. She would wrap her fingers in golden waves, kiss her lover’s neck in the morning, breathe in the softness she had missed when the world of ruin demanded everything to be sharpened and hardened.

Luna’s hand reached even higher, mimicking the position she held in death. Her smile broadened. Aranea could tell from the hitch in her shoulders that Luna was laughing, waving.

Nea fell to her knees and crumpled, ribs collapsing in on themselves. Frosted grass crunched and crackled under her jeans. Her breath left her lungs in a strangled gasp. The cold made her nose run; the pain of grief so freshly torn to the forefront brought tears to her cheeks in bitterly frozen trails. 

"Luna.” It came out as a breath, as a syllable that never should have left her mouth after her lover’s death. But it was such a Gods damn relief to be able to say Luna’s name. It lifted a hundred different painful thoughts from her skull. It let her breathe.

It was the moment where the rotten pillars of their church finally crumbled. The roof fell. The supports cracked and crashed. Glass shattered under the weight of it all. The pews broke into kindling. The stars glimmered among the ruins. The moon’s light painted the shattered church a million colours Aranea had forgotten to see in her dull wander through the past half a dozen years. It was apparent now, suddenly whole and true, that Aranea had stayed aloft only to have this moment with Luna. This moment to fall. Her pain had faded into something manageable simply to strike again and remind her what it felt like to bury her grief like a knife to the hilt in her gut.

Astrals be damned, she would take it as long as it meant she could hold Luna in her arms again. 

She heard it more than saw it. The _whoosh_ of air as the giant wound its arm back and readied a blade twice her size. It could have been seconds; it could have been years. Aranea didn’t care. All she cared about was, for once in her fucking life, catching Luna’s hand in hers before it was too late.

“Nea!” 

A shoulder and the sharp point of an elbow hit Aranea’s back. She tumbled forward and forgot she had two hands that could catch herself if she fell. Frost and dirt filled her mouth, gloves barely numbed the sting of cold from her fingers. Her nose cracked into dirt and it was hard enough to be concrete.

It was the scream that shattered what peace Aranea thought she had found. The high-pitched scream of the young woman she promised to protect. The young woman who had taken the familiar coat of grief from her shoulders and slowly taught her how to puzzle her remains back together. 

A spatter of blood struck the back of her leather jacket. Aranea had heard that sound too many times before. She knew it better than her own name. She knew it better than Luna’s. 

Nea ripped herself to her feet suddenly. A growl, feral and guttural and everything she wasn’t, tore through her throat. _No._ If Aranea died, then it was acceptable. But Iris? Iris was the last good thing in this world of darkness. She was the last string holding her to hope. And, she figured, Iris was a beacon for so many other broken souls. 

The lance was back in her hands. The position they took was familiar. It was second nature, only toppled by the faint memory of Luna’s hip in her cupped palm. Sparks flashed. Nea didn’t know what she was striking. Hot ichor painted her cheeks. The crack of bones broke the chaotic din of silence she struggled with before. Her lance moved like an extension of herself. It swung with an ease she barely remembered in training. 

Nea heard Luna’s careful whisper in her ear. She missed the words. But, she knew, this was a battle she would fucking finish. 

***

broken by different things

Iris’ arm was a mass of torn and shredded flesh. Blood oozed from the remains of her hoodie. A sniffle left Iris’ mouth but Aranea had to hand it to her, the kid bit her lip and took it like a champ. An idiotic, stupid champ but a champ none the less. _Like you’re much better._

“Hold still.” Neither of them were packed for an injury like this; Lestallum was a good six hour drive away. And they had lost the truck to a Giant’s pissed off fist. _She’ll bleed out._ No. _But she could. Her skin looks like the remains of a tattered t-shirt on a washing line._ Glaives had suffered worse and lived to tell the tale. _Glaives were trained for years. Glaives still have some of the King’s power. Iris is just_ \- a tough, resilient woman. The type of person Nea had forgotten to be.

Aranea pushed the thoughts away before she could latch onto them and spiral. She focused on cleaning the wound, tearing out dirt and grass as the haven pulsed around them and the subtle sound of daemons spawning interrupted their moment of peace. _Peace? The kid’s -_ fine. Iris was fine. Iris needed to be fine. 

She reached for the bandages and straightened Iris’ arm.

Iris barely held back a scream. 

“I know.” She kept her tone as soft as she could. Iris needed stitches. Aranea didn’t even have fishing line. _This mission should have been easy, in and out. Fast and quick. Fuck._ “Grip my shoulder, bite your lip. I need to bandage it.” Which meant pressure and pain and blood on the two of them and a hundred other - _stop, damn it. Do the damn job before she bleeds out._

Aranea gritted her teeth at Iris’ nod. She used one hand to push the shredded flesh together and the other to wind the bandages from wrist to shoulder. She pulled linen around it till Iris shook against her and gasped through her bitten lip. The fabric was instantly stained, wet with blood. The darkness of the spreading liquid dragged Nea’s heart into her throat. She reached for another bandage and did it tighter then the first one.

_Gladio’s going to kill me when I show up with a corpse instead of his sister._

Hell, she’d probably off herself before that. The two of them could go with Luna together, arm in arm. Wouldn’t that be a sight. “ _Hey babe, Lulu. This is Iris, Gladio’s kid sister. Remember her? Yeah. When you came to get me, I had a mental breakdown. Decided to drag her along for the ride. Hope you and the Astrals don’t mind. Actually, fuck the Astrals, they ruined me.”_

Yeah. She didn’t think that would go over very well. Luna didn’t like her cursing the Astrals when she was alive. Nea doubted she would let her curse the Astrals while resting, dead, in their realms. Her hands tightened automatically around Iris’ forearm, gripping as if she could stop the blood through sheer will power.

Iris pulled away from Aranea’s hands, pushed herself closer to the fire in the centre of the haven. A pained gasp left her in a shuddered breath. She curled in on herself, bundled her arm against her chest as best she could. “Ow.” It was soft, nearly broken. “Would ya’ be a little more careful?” A sniffle left her and she released her arm to brush away snot from under her nose. 

“Jeez, you’d think you’d be a little nice with the whole bandaging thing. It’s not like I meant to get hurt.” Tears glimmered in Iris’ eyes as she struggled to hide how much her torn flesh pained her. “Not like I meant -”

“You -” Aranea snagged Iris’ wrist again and yanked the young woman back. Her anger seeped into her next words. “You jumped in front of a daemon’s blade.” The anger was only partly directed at Iris. The rest of it...she should have done better. She was the one who shattered. Grief was funny like that, you finally had control of it and suddenly your entire world crumbled under a weight you were entirely used to beforehand. Nea’s knees had broken a second time. The first time was Luna’s death, the second should have been her own. 

She bitterly grabbed a third reel of bandages from their pack. “You pushed _me,_ the one who is fully trained to fight these things, out of the way.” The third winding was even tighter, trying to staunch the flow. Aranea ignored the tears in the kid’s eyes. They needed this blood to stop. “You, who I told to stay in the truck, jumped out to help nearly immediately. You, who has shit range when she doesn’t get a good hit on the first stroke and something gets too close, decided to jump to _my_ fucking rescue. And for what? Five seconds of glory. Now your arm is fucked. Congratulations.” _Stop it. You’re being a bitch._ Of course she was. Aranea couldn’t admit the terror of nearly losing Iris right after nearly losing herself.

The third bandage was knotted at Iris’ wrist with just as much anger as the first two were. Aranea reached for the last one, already mentally preparing herself to start slicing extra clothing if she had to. She’d tear apart her own hoodie. “You didn’t even get a swing on the thing. You shoved me out of the way, threw your blade up, and stood there. What the hell were you thinking? Oh, right. You weren’t thinking. You were doing the exact opposite of thinking. You were reacting, throwing yourself into danger and –”

“…I saw her too.”

Iris’ quiet mumble nearly stopped Aranea dead in her tracks. Her hands hovered, the end of the bandage threatened to unwind and hit the dirt.

“You…what?” Nea could barely breathe. The words left her in a broken gasp. _Her._ It could have been anything. It could have meant _anything._ Iris could be delirious from the pain. Perhaps she had gone half-mad from it. Astrals. Fuck. 

Iris looked away from her arm, lip tucked between her teeth as she worried the rut she’d created while keeping herself from screaming.. “Lady Lunafreya…I saw her too, behind the giant.” The young woman pulled away from her, with a wince and half a strangled moan. She bit the tail end of the moan back and wrapped the bandage around her arm herself. Aranea could tell from the shake in Iris’ hand that it wasn’t going to be tight enough. 

“And…I didn’t think you were going to get out of the way or block or anything. You were just standing there, staring at her. And then you dropped to your knees. You just crumpled and I thought –” A hiccup of a sob, Aranea knew it wasn’t from the injury but she wished it fucking was, wiggled out from Iris. “I thought I was going to lose you too, Nea. I didn’t think you’d get out of the way because of how you were looking at her and I just…she wasn’t calling you Nea, she was just looking. I guess? Watching? Cause she loves you, right? And if she loves you, she wouldn’t be calling you back. She’d let you live. Right? That’s what…that’s what she would have wanted and I…I couldn’t…I couldn’t just let you die like that.”

The young woman burst into tears. They wracked her whole body, shook her to her core. She pulled her injured arm into her chest and wrapped her good one around it as if she could heal it with her sorrows. She hugged herself desperately and struggled to speak. “I th-thought I was gonna watch y-you-” but she couldn’t finish. Her jaw clamped shut, she dug her teeth into her lip, and did her damest to fall silent even as sobs racked through her chest and shook her shoulders like the Leviathan’s scream shook Nea’s core.

It was that moment, that Aranea actually _saw_ Iris. She wasn’t a girl asking for training, she wasn’t Gladio’s sister. She was just a kid. A kid who was as broken down as Nea was. They were just broken by different things and she had never bothered to stop and see it. Aranea had been too blinded by her own bullshit to realize that Iris had been reaching for her from her own darkness so they could meet in a watery line of hope.

Before she could stop herself, before she could think any further, Nea reached out and yanked Iris against her chest. Iris tumbled into her arms. They twisted together, neither of them fit well into each other. Iris, from shock and pain and resistance. Aranea because she hadn’t held someone for six years and her heart arched that it wasn’t the woman who once fit snugly into her arms like the two had been destined for each other. 

But she bundled Iris into her chest. She hugged the kid until she swore she heard something snap in her own chest and kept hugging her. Fuck the blood, fuck the injury. Fuck the grief that told her she didn’t deserve Iris. Nea’s head screamed that she was only going to scatter the kid in her arms. Was there truth in that when both of them were already so delicately broken?

“I wasn’t going to stand there.” Aranea muttered against the crest of Iris’ hair. “I swear to you. I knew she wasn’t calling.” It was a lie, sweet Astrals was it the biggest lie she’d ever told in her gods damned life. It was worse than her promising Bigs and Wedge she’d be careful every hunt or mission she went on. It was worse than telling a kid his dad was simply out on another hunt, that’d he’d be back in a week. She once held a Glaive in her arms as they bled out and promised them that they would make it home and the Marshall wouldn’t give them a dirty look for staining their uniform with ichor and blood. This was a lie that ripped out her soul, which threw Luna to the wind. It was this lie, this promise to Iris, which condemned Luna to the afterlife and solidified Aranea’s place in the here and now.

This was where Nea was supposed to let Luna go.

Iris grasped Nea’s shirt with her good hand, face buried in her chest. Snot bubbled out of her nose as if she was a toddler. She shook and Nea didn’t know if it was from the pain or the tears or something else she would never have the privilege of knowing. “P-promise me? Promise me you won’t ever do that again. Cause, cause I saw her too. And I saw her smile but…but it was at both of us. She wasn’t calling, Nea. I swear she wasn’t calling ya’.”

The words gathered in her throat like a blockage of stones. “…I promise you, Iris.” If Luna came to her again, as more than a fleeting smile or wisp of silver blonde, she’d have to leave it. She would have to turn away and ignore the reaching hand that felt more fucking right then being alive.

Nea squeezed the young woman gently in her arms, ignoring the wincing and the wound. “I promise you. I don’t plan on seeing Luna anytime soon.” But, Astrals be damned, she wished she could. She wished, for half a second after her promise, that Iris had stayed in the fucking truck. She wished she had gotten to take Luna’s hand.

A sniffle left her as she leaned back. Iris wiped her nose on the back of her hand. Her head shifted to rest on Nea’s shoulder. “She’s proud of you. She’s gotta be. Right?” 

Would Luna be proud of her for abandoning her in the afterlife? “...yeah. I think...I think she is.” Nea nodded and ran a hand through Iris’ hair. Luna was dead set on her path as Oracle, on the death the Astrals foretold. She was prepared for it in a way Nea never could be. Perhaps...perhaps that’s what Nea needed to accept. Her grief would stay with her, lie dormant against her bones, for the rest of her life. But Luna accepted her death. Nea needed to accept her life and loss. 

“I know she is.” Iris’ eyes slipped closed, shock slowly easing into exhaustion. “…can we call Gladdy to come get us?” Her voice was a quiet murmur, a mumble that breathed a hint of worry into Nea’s stomach.

“Uh…” Aranea patted her pockets, breathed a sigh of relief when she found her phone. There were just enough bars for a text. “I’ll send him a message but if he doesn’t get back to us by first light…” _I’ll be piggybacking you out of here kid._ “We’ll figure it out.” Her fingers frantically scrambled across the screen before it could change its mind about quarter-decent service.

“He’ll be here.” Iris sighed softly and nestled her face into the space between Nea’s neck and shoulder. “Just like you’re here. Right?”

Aranea took a deep breath and nodded. “Yeah. Just like how I’m here.” The scent of sylleblossoms danced in her nose and honey graced her tongue for half a moment. She swore, if she closed her eyes for half a moment, she would see Luna again. 

But she didn’t close her eyes. Instead, she reached for Iris’ hand, grasped it between her fingers, and forced a bittersweet smile. “I ain’t going anywhere, kiddo. Gotta teach you to actually _swing_ next time. Don’t I?”

Iris chuckled. “I was blocking.” 

"Blocking my ass.” She glanced at Iris’ arm, terrified that the blood would be leaking down her wrist from soaked bandages. But it wasn’t. Iris’ bandages were dark, indigo splotches in the hazy light of the growing night. It was as if her bleeding had slowed to a crawl or some of her flesh had knit together under the bandages. As if an Oracle’s hand had graced both of them for half a moment.

The phone buzzed in her clenched hand and she glanced at it. **Gladio ~ OMW** flashed across the screen before the signal burst into useless static. Nea swore she heard her name in her ear, whispered on the edge of a tongue she hadn’t heard for years.


End file.
